I was in the grocery store, waiting in line with other folks starting to stock up for Thanksgiving.
The line was moving efficiently and there was a mom and two small kids behind me. The young boy took a carton of chocolate milk out of the basket and was holding tight to his chest, obviously staking claim to this store-bought treasure.
I suddenly found myself, 15 years old, in the back of a Hillside Dairy truck on a hot August day.
The glass bottles were covered with wet burlap sacks and bits of ice still remained from the early morning. The truck was dark and cool and the milk was even colder.
In addition to the regular milk there were metal cases of chocolate milk as well.
If you had been earning your keep, riding with dad on his route, you could open a pint of cold chocolate milk and drink straight from that glass bottle. It was gone in a few gulps and streams of brown chocolate dripped from your chin. On a hot, sweaty day, it was nectar from the Gods!
I give thanks for those memories that jump out of nowhere and remind me of simpler times.
I’m not sure where Aleppo is — Syria I believe. But we should be aware of the terrible situation there.
Children and civilians killed in indiscriminate bombing raids and most of their hospitals destroyed to the point that janitors and cleaners are providing first-aid to the victims that manage to make it out of the rubble.
We have many hospitals within minutes of where we live and we can pick and choose which one we will go to.
Maybe we have to wait for a couple of hours to be seen, but at least it will not be one of the cleaning staff that eventually puts in our stitches or reads our ECG.
I’m very thankful I have a warm, well-lit area to wait in when I need medical attention.
It snowed quite heavily this week in the northern part of our province. That is a tough blow to an area that is struggling with economic downturns in forests, mines and the oil industry already.
Unemployment is up, jobs are scarce and a long winter will put a strain on their municipal government.
I played golf in a short sleeved shirt this week, under sunny skies on a well-manicured golf course. I am thankful that I live in such a spectacular part of our country.
The City rousted dozens of homeless people from their makeshift camp this week.
Most of them left what belongings they had gathered behind and some fought the removal and caused some tension.
Regardless of what your view is on the homeless issue, I’m giving thanks that I wasn’t one of them.
I’m thankful that I avoided whatever circumstance, bad choice or twist of fate that put them on the flood plain, knowing how fine that line between success and failure can be.
Yes, as I’m pouring that thick brown gravy over those mashed potatoes and roasted turkey breast I will say, “Thank-you.”
As I say yes to the whipped cream on my pumpkin pie, I will say, “Thank-you.”
As I’m listening to memories from Thanksgivings past and sharing the laughs, I will say, “Thank-you.”
It doesn’t really matter who you say it to, just say thanks.
At least that’s what McGregor says.